


Use your Hips, Cowboy.

by Mordin



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Fluff and Smut, Foreplay, Inaccurate depictions of grappling techniques, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4615065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordin/pseuds/Mordin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya teaches Napoleon some grappling techniques.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Use your Hips, Cowboy.

**Author's Note:**

> I took a short self-defense/jiu jitsu course, and immediately ran home afterward to write porn. Because I am a mature, sane individual.  
> Written in the wee hours of the morning, so likely incoherent and rife with errors and nonsensical grammar. Also my first full-on smut fic, and the first thing I've ever posted. Hooray!  
> I do not pretend to know anything about actual martial arts, so please feel free to laugh at the inaccuracies. Also my understanding of Russian is limited to Google so I may be way off, please feel free to correct me. _Also,_ this may be hilariously OOC, since I've only seen the movie, and read copious amounts of fanfic. And I probably dropped an exaggerated number of particles in Illya's speech, but it sounded right at the time.  
>  I'm going to apologize ahead of time if you can't make heads or tails of what the fuck positions they're in. It made sense in my head. If there's a specific spot you get confused, totally let me know. Otherwise just imagine a cartoon dust cloud with limbs flying in random directions.

_Maybe you can learn something from him, Mr. Solo._

Fuck Waverly, because this was a terrible idea. And Napoleon had known it at the time, but he wasn't going to back down, goddammit, he had to protect his pride. As an American. To stand up for his materialistic, money-hungry ideals. Or, you know, to make Illya look stupid. That too.

“You can throw punch, but when you grapple, you flail like wet noodle.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes.

“Then I don’t let anyone get that close. I have fists for that. Also, a gun.”

Illya is readjusting the binding on one hand, a smirk playing at his lips. “You want to try? See how effective that strategy is?”

Not really, he thinks, but the thought doesn’t reach his lips.

“Hasn’t failed me yet.” He raises his fists. “Let’s dance a bit, _comrade_.”

That...was the opposite of the thing he just thought. Why does he put himself in these situations?

Illya’s smirk only deepens, before he turns serious. Where Napoleon is all fancy footwork, fists at the ready, Illya’s stature is more defensive, palms out in front of him. He’s waiting, watching. And Napoleon doesn’t waste time--closes the distance between them in quick steps until one fist is out, and Illya ducks easily to the side. He dances back a bit before coming in again, a right followed by a left, as easily dodged as the first. A little annoyed, he comes in again, with a left--and Illya’s forearm comes up to block, before catching his bicep. The right comes in quick succession, and is blocked just as efficiently. Before Napoleon knows it, Illya’s ducked down to his side, arms wrapped around him and immobilizing his dominant arm. He tries to pry the man off with his free arm, but it doesn’t do much good--the next thing he knows Illya’s slipped around behind him, and Napoleon is in a chokehold. The grip is a little more aggressive than simply competitive, and Napoleon is quickly tapping on Illya’s arm in surrender. Illya releases him, and he stumbles away a few feet, face red. Illya’s got a shit-eating grin on his face, and Napoleon huffs in annoyance.

“Ok...that caught me off guard. Do it again,” He demands, and Illya just shrugs.

“If you say so.”

They get back into position, Napoleon trying to vary his swings and stay out of Illya’s range. But the Russian still finds his opening, hooking the biceps, slipping around to pin Napoleon’s dominant arm. But his other arm is still free, and he grabs at Illya’s shirt, intending to pry him off. That’s when his feet are suddenly not under him, and his lower back slams into the mat.

“Hey, that was different!”

Illya is smiling again, the shithead, stalking away to grab his water and take a swig before answering.

“You adapt, I adapt.”

Napoleon drops his head down, sighing, letting his arms flop out beside him. Illya comes up casually from behind his head, and before he can say anything, the man pivots and drops down on top of Napoleon, straddling his hips.

“Woah, woah!” He tries to scramble away--but with only his thighs, not even using his hands, Illya has him completely trapped. Napoleon tries to grab at the Russian but his hands are quickly and securely pinned over his head.

Napoleon has certainly been in this position before, but not quite in this context. He’s suddenly afraid of someone walking in on them. He hopes he’s not blushing. He’s not though. Definitely not.

“ _Peril_ …” He says, tone warning.

“What do you do?”

Napoleon just looks at him suspiciously, offering a dumb, “ _Huh?_ ”

“You are in this position. What do you do?” he asks, simply, like it’s incredibly obvious. Their position is horribly incriminating but Illya doesn’t seem to see it that way, his face a perfect mask of professionalism.

Napoleon sighs, but tries to escape anyway. Hands are useless, legs just the same and only good for scrambling helplessly. He tries twisting, but Illya’s thighs have him in a vice grip. He finally goes limp and lets out a grunt of frustration.

“Ok. I give. No, I don’t know what to do.”

“Your hips.”

Napoleon looks at him suspiciously. “Scuse me?”

Illya’s expression is still purely professional. “Use your hips. Up.” He gestures with his chin. “Push up.”

“I think you’re gonna have to ask me to dinner first, Peril.”

Illya’s impassivity finally cracks, and he scowls. He gathers Napoleon’s wrists in one hand and starts to swing his fist at his captive--the American flinches, just before the fist stops an inch from his face.

“You are in _danger_.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Napoleon mumbles. He stares at Illya a little longer. “...hips?”

Illya doesn’t humor him with an answer, just waits. Napoleon tries very hard to ignore the heavy weight of Illya’s ass on his crotch, and decides not to make a crack about it, if he wants to keep his teeth. Push his hips up. Not like he doesn’t _want_ to.

He finally does as Illya says, jerking his hips up, and Illya grunts and falls forward, hands hitting the mat on either side of his head. Napoleon’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Good,” Illya compliments, before settling back onto Napoleon. “Again.”

Napoleon screws his eyebrows together, jerking his hips up again. Illya falls just as before, hands slamming onto the mat, and he’s certain that the Russian isn’t exaggerating this time. Shit really works.

Illya settles back again. “I go to hit you.” He raises a fist again. Napoleon jerks his hips before he can take the swing, and Illya falls off again.

“Good!” He compliments, more enthusiastically.

This time he stays there, hovering over Napoleon.

“Now from here.” He pats at his right arm. “Take my elbow. Hook,” he gestures by hooking one elbow over the other. “Pull to your chest. Try.”

Napoleon does, a little confused by the angle and more than a little flustered, with Illya’s face a few inches from his. He gets the arm to his chest, and offers a questioning eyebrow to his would-be teacher.

“Now this foot,” He taps at Napoleon’s right foot with his own. “Hook over my ankle.”

Napoleon does. “Good. Now this way,” He gestures his chin towards his right. “Hips again, but push this way. Hard.”

Napoleon resents his choice of wording there, but takes a deep breath before he complies. Before he knows it Illya’s tumbling off him, and the momentum brings him such that their positions are completely reversed. He blinks repeatedly, as if not quite understanding how they got there. Illya grins widely, clapping Napoleon on the arm.

“Good! See? Can teach dog new tricks.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. Ignores the hard line of Illya’s crotch under his ass. Good god.

“Alright, fine. You win. Though I can’t remember the last time I was in this position and didn’t _want_ to be.”

“No,” Illya supplies. Napoleon doesn’t have long to be confused before Illya’s hips are canting up (oh good God, he wants him to do that again, don’t groan, please), his arm is pinned, and they’re tumbling off to the side again until their positions are back to how they were originally.

“Now, I win.” Illya says, looking way too proud of himself. His thighs are just a bit tighter, or maybe Napoleon is imagining that?

Napoleon scoffs, offering a smarmy grin, and executes the maneuver perfectly the second time. Illya’s laughing when their positions are reversed again.

“You are fast learner, cowboy. You are good for something.”

Illya flips them again one more time, and Napoleon wants to be annoyed, but goddammit, he’s enjoying this, and his pants are impossibly tight right now.

“Different maneuver,” Illya says, all business again, but with the hint of a smile.

“I am you, good guy. You are the assailant. I’ve gotten the upper hand.” He explains. He starts to mock-punch Napoleon. “I am beating your face into paste. You cannot get away. What do you do, instinctively? Try to get away,” he instructs.

He continues to mock-punch and Napoleon tries to shuffle away, with limited success. He pushes away Illya’s fists, and starts to try to twist--and to his surprise, Illya lets him, lifting off of him a fraction. He manages onto his stomach and starts to shuffle away when Illya’s weight drops heavily onto his lower back. Putting pressure in bad, bad places.

“See? Bad guy always gets on stomach. Wants to get away, protect face. Stupid move,” he can feel Illya gently mock-punching the back of his head. “Still, your head is pulp. You try to lift head,” Napoleon does, and Illya’s arms are around his neck in a chokehold. Oh boy, that should be unpleasant. But oh, boy. “Same, bad idea.”

They stay like that a long enough moment that Illya tilts his head, curiously. “You can tap out, and I stop.”

Napoleon manages a chuckle, and a strained, “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

Illya considers this for a long moment, one eyebrow arched high, before letting Napoleon go. The American lets out a groan. He’s definitely not... _not_ enjoying this.

“You can still move, yes?” he continues, undeterred. Napoleon wiggles a little, and Illya tightens his lips at the feeling of Napoleon’s ass rubbing against him. He didn’t intend for that. Or did he? He’s not sure. He’s not complaining.

“Lil’ bit,” Napoleon supplies, sounding far too content with the situation.

Illya smiles, resists licking his lips.

In one smooth movement, he slips a hand under Napoleon’s armpit, grabbing his wrist and pinning it under him. He then slips his legs under Napoleon’s thighs from the outside, hooking his ankles over his knees, and then--for all intents and purposes-- _grinds_ down into Napoleon as he pushes his hips forward. His body is stretched out and settled heavily on his partner now, and he can tell that Napoleon has definitely stopped breathing.

“Now can you move?” he asks, voice a bit rough and right next to Napoleon’s ear. He swears he feels the thief shudder under him. He does move a bit, but naturally doesn’t get far, and doesn’t seem to have put in much effort at all, really.

“Nope…” He tries again, a little. “No I cannot.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Illya finds himself laying a bit more heavily on his captive.

“Want to try it?” he asks, a little half-heartedly.

“Maybe,” he offers. “In a minute.”

Illya’s chin comes to settle on Napoleon’s shoulder, close enough that his breath ghosts his captive’s ear.

“I would hope you don’t do this with your assailant,” Illya says. Napoleon grins.

“I thought I was the assailant in this scenario?” He points out.

Napoleon can feel lllya’s voice rumble in his chest as he hums, thoughtfully. He’d thought he might be the only one enjoying this, but right now, he is not imagining the hardness currently jabbing into the back of his sweatpants.

Then, regretfully, the weight is off him, and he can move again. Illya rolls off and onto his back. Napoleon wants to lament the loss, but turns to Illya, and his heart speeds up a bit. The man is spread out, relaxed and unguarded in a way that Napoleon isn’t used to. He’s smirking lazily, tapping his hips in invitation, drawing attention to the incredibly obvious tenting of his pants.

Napoleon gives him a predatory look, and crawls over to straddle his waist. Illya lets his eyes slip closed for a moment, obviously enjoying the pressure. His eyes flicker back open again, and he brings his arms up in a lazy defensive position.

“You are punching me,” He pretends to block a few punches, “I am dumb goon. I try to flip over,” he does, and taps against Napoleon’s hips. “You let me do it.” Napoleon complies, giving Illya just enough room to flip over. He doesn’t even bother to act out scuffling away, and holds back a moan as Napoleon’s weight settles against him and presses his hardness into the mats.

“Mmm?” Napoleon hums, as if inquiring about his next instruction.

“Hook your legs--” This time a groan does escape Illya, as Napoleon’s legs slide against his and hook around them. He doesn’t really even care at this point. Without prompting, Napoleon is mirroring his own maneuver from before, hooking his arm under Illya’s and trapping it under his chest.

Then he pushes to straighten out, and his dick grinds into Illya’s ass, and their clothing is sweat-soaked enough that it doesn’t leave much to the imagination. This time Illya unabashedly moans, spine arching, pressing his forehead into the mat, his free hand coming up to tangle into Napoleon’s hair. The American tongues at the exposed back of Illya’s neck, rocking himself up and down, and the friction is fucking unbearable.

“How’s that?” Napoleon murmurs, and punctuates it with a bite at the shell of Illya’s ear. The Russian groans appreciatively.

“Not bad, cowboy.” His voice is rough and pleasantly deep. He tries to move, trying to rut into the mat and get some friction, but he’s completely immobilized and at the American’s mercy. Napoleon seems acutely aware of this, and is _severely_ enjoying it. Illya can’t decide if he’s annoyed or impressed that Napoleon is learning so quickly, but can’t find it in him to complain--especially when Napoleon grinds down particularly hard, his hips canting in a perfect fucking arch. Illya’s hand tightens in Napoleon’s hair, and his neck strains up to suck in a breath.

“блять…”

“You’re a good teacher, partner mine.” Napoleon’s fingers dance up the curve of Illya’s throat, sliding along his lips. “We should do this more often.”

Illya grins around Napoleon’s fingers, drawing them in with his tongue and biting gently.

“Ahh...christ, Illya.” He lets Illya take a finger into his mouth, sucking slow and wet, followed by a second, then a third. The feeling of Illya’s tongue is making his spine tingle, imagining how that would feel around his dick, and _fuck_. He rotates his hips, desperate for more contact.

Napoleon decides he has too few hands, and gets impatient. He lets go of Illya’s pinned wrist, instead sliding his palm down the man’s chest. He readjusts himself just enough to let Illya lift up a fraction--just enough room to slide his hand down tensed abs and under the hem of his pants.

He gets a solid grip on Illya’s dick, and the Russian hisses around the fingers in his mouth, biting down just hard enough to sting. He lets go of Napoleon’s hair balance himself, blunt nails dragging against the mat.

“Боже мой…!”

It's muffled around Napoleon’s fingers, but clear enough. Napoleon grins, teeth dragging against the curve of the Russian’s shoulders. He works Illya tight and slow, in time with the deliberate roll of his hips, and the lazy thrusting of his fingers against Illya’s tongue.

Illya’s trembling, both from the stimulation and the effort of holding up their combined weight. Undeterred, he shifts a little to balance onto one arm, and reaches his other back to blindly grope for Napoleon. He finds his hip, and from there quickly finds a handful of Napoleon’s ass, his big hands grabbing at as much as he can reach. Napoleon groans, fingers slipping out of Illya’s mouth to brace against the mat. Illya doesn’t linger long, shoulder straining as he reaches awkwardly between them to slip into the front of Napoleon’s pants. Napoleon drops his head to bury into Illya’s shoulder blades at the glorious fucking contact.

“Jesus, fuck…”

The touch is awkward because of the angle, but he honestly doesn’t care, because just the drag of calloused fingers has him teetering on the edge. He thinks he’ll lose it right there, but Illya beats him to it--his entire body goes rigid, spine arching tightly down and his head thrown back. There’s wetness on Napoleon’s hand, but Illya doesn’t make a goddamn sound, all of his release coming through in the harsh shudders that surge through him in waves. Napoleon feels every bit of it, pressed flush against him, hissing at the stilled but tight grip on his dick, while Illya starts to come down. The tail-end of his release is when his voice finally breaks through, a rush of breath punctuated by a tight moan, almost a whimper, like it had taken all of his effort to try and keep the sound from escaping. Napoleon’s never heard anything like it, and decides its the most fucking incredible sound he’s ever heard, and he wants to hear it again. Wants to keep taking the other man apart until he can tear that sound out of him, over and over.

That thought has Napoleon jerking frantically against Illya, slipping his cum-coated hand out of the man’s pants to pull his hips up to meet his thrusts. Illya’s hand resumes its attention to Napoleon’s dick with fast, tight strokes, and he’s coming seconds later. His groan isn’t nearly as restrained, only muffled into Illya’s tight shoulder blades at the last second in the interest of discretion (which is honestly an afterthought at this point). Illya works him through it, while Napoleon's hot breath moistens the fabric of Illya’s shirt, and he can taste the sweat there as he comes down from his high.

He resists the urge to collapse onto Illya and crush his arm between them, waiting until the other man has slipped his hand out from his pants. Illya arranges his arms under his head and leans into them, sighing gratefully now that his other arm is spared the full brunt of their collective weight. Napoleon offers a lazy press of tongue, and a few open-mouthed kisses over the bumps of Illya’s spine.

Finally, with some regret but mostly out of sheer exhaustion, he untangles himself from his partner and falls off him and onto his back like a sack of dead weight. Illya doesn’t even have the energy to roll over, falling onto his stomach instead. They stay that way for a long while, catching their breaths, covered in sweat with cum drying in their sweatpants.

Eventually Illya manages to push himself up enough to flop bonelessly onto his back. Napoleon looks over to him, and the man is more contented than he’s ever seen him--eyes closed, lips curled in a relaxed smile.

Napoleon can’t help but grin, chuckling mostly to himself. He pushes up into a sitting position, half-heartedly surveying the room around them. Thankfully they’re still alone, and no unfortunate souls had wandered in. They would have heard them coming, probably.

He starts to shuffle on his knees, waddling like a penguin, until he’s between Illya’s legs. He crawls over him and abruptly drops down onto his chest. Illya grunts at the impact, the air rushing out of him in a huff, followed by a breathless chuckle. He arches his neck down to see the other man.

“What are you doing?”

Napoleon pushes up onto his elbows, offering a toothy, lopsided smile.

“How do you get out of this one?”

Illya rolls his eyes, head dropping back onto the mats, and laughs.


End file.
